The World’s Best Donuts (according to the sign, and the bustle outside the shop that sells them) are just down the street from our rented flat, in a lovely small town, on the north shore of Lake Superior. This is our first morning in this gorgeous part of the country, and I am sitting at an outdoor table, at the aforementioned sweet shack, just a block from the water. A cool breeze is blowing, and I have my nearest and dearest (husband, son, daughter, brother, sister-in-law, nieces) all around. There are even some friends who happen to be here (in town, and at this popular hangout), just for good measure. Life is good, right?

My daughter is beaming, so grateful for this treat. And I am smiling, but not because of the treat, and not because of the blissful setting. I am smiling because I should be smiling because of the blissful setting, and I’m trying to mean it. But inside, I’m trembling, afraid to touch the crumb-and-sugar-coated table. Afraid to touch my (equally crumb-and-sugar-coated) son and daughter. I am just hoping this will all wrap up soon. And then, someone declares that we must, must, must begin each day this way.

Xanax, anyone?

Let me explain. I have Celiac disease. Celiac is an auto-immune disease triggered by gluten, a protein in barley, rye and wheat–and thus, in donuts (and nearly everything else).

I was diagnosed a little under a year ago, and this is my first long vacation with family (or anyone) since that time. In the interim, I have had a rather bumpy journey, finding, after adopting a gluten-free diet, just how sensitive I now am to teeny tiny trace amounts of the stuff. My diet’s curbed back to fresh produce, and basic safe staples (eggs, etc.) and only processed food that is certified to have gluten in amounts less than 10 parts per million (which is less than little, for what it’s worth).

Way back in March, after six months of struggles, and right before Passover (when getting rid of grains has ritual significance, too), I finally made our kitchen completely gluten-free. And I finally began to get better—which, for me, meant going for longer stretches without getting knocked for a loop by an acute reaction to gluten exposure.

The journey has not been merely a practical one (what can I eat, where can I eat, etc.), but a social one, figuring out exactly how to balance self-protection with normal life, when to assert my needs, and when to avoid seeming a pain in the ass. It has not been easy. I do not like being a pain in the ass.

When I first learned I’d have to forever and drastically change my diet, I moved pretty quickly, I think, through Elizabeth Kubler-Ross’s five stages of grief—Denial, Bargaining, Anger, Depression, Acceptance. I went from explaining the reason I was declining food, to politely just declining (because, really, people just don’t want to know). I research restaurants before I go to see if there’s a chance in hell I can really eat there—and now, if I can’t, I just order a Diet Coke. And when I’ve gone to retreat centers for one or two days, I’ve brought protein bars and survived on whole fruit and hard-cooked eggs. But a 10-day vacation? This is new territory.

My brother’s family and my family are very close. We vacation together at least twice a year. Last time, during winter break, my brother’s family came to us, and though my house was not yet completely gluten-free, I still had some control over the kitchen. This is the first time I have been away from my kitchen for more than a few days since this diagnosis, and I am utterly stressing out, trying to figure out—in the bosom of my family—when and how to be self-protective without being a wet blanket.

This is a family, mind you, that has happily adapted over the years to other restrictions we’ve imposed. They are not Jewish (they’re Unitarian, much more in line with my brother’s and my secular upbringing), and not vegetarian (as we are). They don’t drop bread for Passover (though Spring Break—and our joint vacations—have sometimes coincided with the holiday). They are not used to thinking about anything, before they sit down to eat, but what’s yummy and healthy and available.

I feel for them.

But two days before our trek north, while we were still encamped in their home base of Minneapolis, I somehow screwed up while trying to stay gluten-free in their kitchen. My hand buzzed. My joints hurt. And when I just had to go to sleep, it was no ordinary sleepiness. I was a zombie. When I had to rise to take care of something for my son, I was fit to cry. I could not think. I could not stay vertical. I had to lie down. And when I did, I slept for 11 hours.

So about tomorrow morning, I will explain: I will not go with them to the World’s Best Donuts. Nor the next day nor the next. I will walk there with them, perhaps, but then continue on my way, for coffee elsewhere, or a quiet moment on the shore. Anything but donuts, or tables and children covered in donut dust. I will make myself scarce for that brief moment of their glee each day. And I will look forward to the remainders of those days, and plenty of activities that we can all completely enjoy, together.